“Not because everyone is dishonest,” she used to say. “Because memory is optimistic. Paper is not.”
I owned a house of my own. A modest three-bedroom in a quiet neighborhood. I had renovated it myself, room by room. It was fully paid off. No mortgage. No partner on the deed.
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When I married Daniel Mercer, I moved into his family home for practical reasons. He worked from there, and commuting from my house would have added too much time to his day.
It was supposed to be temporary.
A few months.
Then we would decide what came next.
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